The Bat (11 page)

“What do we do now?” Andrew asked. “Do we tell all blondes under pensionable age to stay at home in the evenings?”

“Doing that would make him go underground and we’d never find him then,” Lebie said. He had taken out a penknife and was painstakingly cleaning his nails.

“On the other hand, are we going to leave all the blondes in Australia to their doom, as bait for this bloke?” Yong said.

“There’s no point telling women to stay indoors,” Watkins said. “If he’s on the prowl for a victim, he’ll find one. He broke into a couple of houses, didn’t he. Forget it. We’ll have to smoke him out.”

“How though? He operates right across the bloody country, and no one knows when he’ll strike next. The guy rapes and kills at random.” Lebie was talking to his nails.

“That’s not correct,” Andrew answered. “To have survived for so long there’s nothing random about it. There is a pattern. There’s always a pattern. Not because you plan it, but because all humans are creatures of habit, there’s no difference between you and me and the rapist. It’s just a question of finding what this particular creature’s habits are.”

“The man’s out of his mind,” Lebie said. “Aren’t all serial killers schizophrenic anyway? Don’t they hear voices telling them to kill? I agree with Harry. Let’s get a shrink in.”

Watkins was scratching his neck. He seemed bemused.

“A psychologist can probably tell us a lot about a serial killer, but it’s not at all certain that that’s what we’re after here,” Andrew said.

“Seven murders. I call that serial killing,” Lebie said.

“Listen,” Andrew said, leaning over the table and holding
up his big, black hands. “For a serial killer the sexual act comes second to killing. Raping without killing has no meaning. But for our man raping is paramount. In cases where he kills there is consequently a practical reason, as Inspector Watkins says. Perhaps the victim can expose him—she’s seen his face.” Andrew paused. “Or they know who he is.” He placed his hands down in front of him.

The fan was creaking away in the corner, but the air was stuffier than ever.

“Statistics are all well and good,” Harry said, “but we mustn’t let ourselves get carried away. Inger Holter’s murder may be an isolated act. Some people died of common pneumonia during the Black Death, didn’t they. Let’s assume that Evans White is not a serial killer. The fact that there’s another guy running round killing blondes doesn’t mean that Evans White can’t have taken the life of Inger Holter.”

“Complicated explanation, but I take your point, Holy,” Watkins said and summed up: “OK, folks, we’re looking for a rapist and a possible—I repeat—
possible
serial killer. I’ll leave it to McCormack to decide whether to ramp up the investigation. In the meantime we’ll have to continue what we’re doing now. Kensington, anything new to report?”

“Holy didn’t make the morning meeting, so for his sake I’ll repeat myself. I spoke to Robertson, Inger Holter’s wonderful landlord, and asked him if the name Evans White rang any bells. And the fog must have lifted temporarily because in fact the name did. We’re going over this afternoon. Otherwise, the sheriff of Nimbin rang. This Angelina Hutchinson confirmed that she’d been at Evans White’s house for the two nights before Inger Holter was found.”

Harry swore.

Watkins clapped his hands. “OK, back to work, boys. Let’s nail this bastard.”

The words came without much conviction.

Harry had once heard that dogs have an average short-term memory of three seconds, but with repeated stimuli it can be expanded by a considerable amount. The phrase “Pavlov’s dog” comes from the Russian physiologist Ivan Pavlov’s experiments with dogs in which he examined conditioned reflexes in the nervous system. He provided a special stimulus every time he put food out for the dogs over a prolonged period. Then one day he gave the stimulus without putting food out. The dogs’ pancreas and stomach produced the juice to digest the food nonetheless. Not so surprising perhaps, but at any rate it got Pavlov a Nobel Prize. It had been proved that after repeated stimuli the body could “remember.”

When Andrew, for the second time in very few days, sent Robertson’s Tasmanian Devil rocketing into the hedge with a well-directed kick, there was therefore reason to believe that this kick would stay longer in the mind than the first. The next time Robertson’s dog heard unfamiliar footsteps outside the gate—instead of its evil little brain brewing up a storm, its ribs would perhaps start aching.

Robertson received them in the kitchen and offered them a beer. Andrew accepted, but Harry asked for a glass
of mineral water. However, Robertson was unable to accommodate, so Harry thought he would make do with a smoke.

“If you don’t mind,” Robertson said as Harry took out a packet of cigarettes. “Smoking’s banned in my house. Cigarettes harm your body,” he said, knocking back half of the bottle of beer.

“So you take your health seriously, do you,” Harry said.

“Sure do,” Robertson said, ignoring the sarcasm. “In this house we don’t smoke or eat fish or meat. We breathe in fresh air and eat what nature provides.”

“Does that apply to the dog as well?”

“My dog hasn’t eaten meat or fish since it was a puppy. It’s a genuine lacto-vegetarian,” he said, with pride.

“That accounts for its bad moods,” Andrew muttered.

“It’s our understanding that you know one Evans White, Mr. Robertson. What can you tell us?” Harry said, taking out his notebook. He wasn’t intending to jot anything down, but it was his experience that people felt their statement was more important if you pulled out a notebook. Unconsciously, they were more thorough, took the time to check that everything was correct and they were more precise with facts such as times, names and places.

“Officer Kensington rang to find out who Inger Holter’s visitors had been while she lived here. I told him that I’d been in her room and seen the photo pinned to the wall, and I remembered I’d seen the young guy with the child on his lap.”

“Really?”

“Yes, the guy was here twice to my knowledge. The first time they locked themselves in her room and stayed there for almost two days. She was very, erm … noisy. I started worrying about the neighbors and put on loud music so as not to embarrass them. Inger and this bloke, that is. Although they didn’t seem to be too bothered about it. The second time he was only here for two shakes of a lamb’s tail, then he stormed out.”

“Did they have a row?”

“I suppose you could say that, yes. She called after him that she’d tell the bitch what a bastard he was. And that she’d tell some man about his plans.”

“Some man?”

“She said a name, but I don’t remember what it was.”

“And this bitch. Who could it have been?” Andrew asked.

“I try not to meddle in tenants’ private lives, Officer.”

“Excellent beer, Mr. Robertson. Who’s the bitch?” Andrew said, ignoring the previous remark.

“Well, that’s the point.” Robertson hesitated as his eyes jumped nervously from Andrew to Harry. He essayed a smile. “I suppose she’s important to the case, don’t you think?” The question was left hanging in the air, but not for long. Andrew banged down the stubby. And leaned into Robertson’s face.

“You’ve been watching too much TV, Robertson. In the real world I don’t discreetly push a hundred-dollar note across the table, you don’t whisper a name and we don’t each go our separate ways without another word. In the real world I ring for a police car, it steams out here with sirens blaring, they handcuff you, march you off, however ashamed you are, to the car with all the neighbors watching. Then we accompany you to the station and lock you up as a suspect overnight, unless you’ve coughed up a name or your solicitor’s made an appearance. In the real world, in the worst-case scenario, you’re accused of holding back information to cover up a murder. That makes you an automatic accessory to a crime and carries a penalty of six years’ imprisonment. So what’s it going to be, Mr. Robertson?”

Robertson had gone pale around the gills and his mouth had opened and shut a couple of times without emitting a sound. He resembled a fish in a tank that had just realized that it wasn’t going to be fed, it was the food.

“I … I didn’t mean to imply that—”

“For the last time, who’s the bitch?”

“I think it’s her in the photo … the woman who was here …”

“Which photo?”

“She’s standing behind Inger and the bloke in the photo in her room. She’s the little brown one with the headband. I recognized her because she was here a couple of weeks ago asking after Inger. I called her and they stood on the doorstep talking. Their voices gradually got louder and louder and they really laid into each other. Then the door slammed, and Inger ran upstairs to her room crying. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Would you mind, please, bringing me the photo, Mr. Robertson? I have a copy in my office.”

Robertson had become helpfulness itself and shot up to Inger’s room. When he was back, it took Harry no more than a fleeting glimpse to see which of the women in the photo Robertson meant.

“I thought there was something familiar about the face when we met her,” Harry said.

“Isn’t that Mother Kindheart?” Andrew exclaimed in surprise.

“I bet her real name is Angelina Hutchinson.”

The Tasmanian Devil was not to be seen anywhere when they left.

“Have you ever wondered why everyone calls you
Officer
, as if you were a local bobby on the beat, Detective?”

“It must be because of my confidence-inspiring personality.
Officer
sounds like a kind uncle, doesn’t it?” Andrew said contentedly. “And now I don’t have the heart to correct them.”

“You’re just one big cuddly bear, you are,” Harry laughed.

“Koala bear,” Andrew said.

“Six years’ imprisonment,” Harry said. “You liar.”

“First thing that came into my head,” Andrew said.

It was pouring in Sydney. The rain was hammering down on the tarmac, spraying against house walls and in barely a minute forming into rivers running alongside curbs. People dived for shelter in squelching shoes. Some had obviously listened to the morning weather forecast and were carrying umbrellas. Now they were springing up like large, colorful toadstools in the streets. Andrew and Harry were in the car waiting at the traffic lights in William Street by Hyde Park.

“Do you remember the Aboriginal guy in the park right by the Albury that night?” Harry asked.

“Green Park?”

“He greeted you but you didn’t greet him back. Why not?”

“I didn’t know him.”

The lights turned to green and Andrew jumped on the gas.

The Albury wasn’t busy when Harry entered.

“You’re early,” Birgitta said. She was putting clean glasses on the shelves.

“I thought the service would be better before the rush.”

“We serve anyone and everyone here.” She pinched Harry’s cheek. “What do you want?”

“Just a coffee.”

“It’s on the house.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Birgitta laughed. “Sweetheart? That’s what my father calls my mother.” She sat down on a stool and leaned over the bar toward Harry. “And actually I ought to be nervous when a guy I’ve known for less than a week starts using terms of affection with me.”

Harry breathed in her aroma. Scientists still know very little about how the olfactory cortex in the brain converts impulses from receptors into conscious senses of smell. But Harry wasn’t thinking so much about the hows, he just knew that when he smelled her, all sorts of things started happening in his head and body. Like his eyelids closing halfway, like his mouth spreading into a broad grin and his mood soaring.

“Relax,” he said. “ ‘Sweetheart’ belongs to the more innocuous pet-name category.”

“I didn’t even know that innocuous pet names existed.”

“Yes, they do. There’s ‘love’ for example. ‘Sweetie.’ Or ‘honey.’ ”

“And what are the dangerous ones?”

“Well, schnookiepooks is quite dangerous,” Harry said.

“Wha-at?”

“Schnookiepooks. Muffiewuff. You know, fluffy-bear-type words. The important thing is that they’re pet names that don’t have a hackneyed or impersonal sound to them. They have to be more tailor-made, intimate words. And they’re generally pronounced through the nose, so they have that nasal sound people use with children. Then there’s reason to feel claustrophobic.”

“Have you got any more examples?”

“What’s happened to the coffee?”

Birgitta whacked him with the cloth. Then she poured some coffee into a big mug. She was standing with her back to him, and Harry felt an urge to reach over and touch her hair.

She gave him his coffee then went to serve another customer as business began to pick up. His attention was attracted by the sound of the TV suspended over the shelves in the bar. The news was on, and eventually Harry understood that it was about an Aboriginal group demanding certain territorial rights.

“… with regard to the new Native Title legislation,” the newsreader said.

“So justice has prevailed …” he heard a voice behind him say.

Harry turned. At first he didn’t recognize the long-legged, powdered woman with the coarse features and the blonde wig towering above him. But then he identified the fat nose and the gap between the teeth.

“The clown!” he exclaimed. “Otto …”

“Otto Rechtnagel, His Highness, in person, Handsome Harry. That’s the trouble with these high heels. I actually prefer my men to be taller than me. May I?” He parked himself on the bar stool beside Harry.

“What’s your poison?” Harry asked, trying to catch Birgitta’s eye.

“Relax, she knows,” said Otto.

Harry offered him a cigarette, which he took without a word of thanks and placed in a pink holder. Harry held out a match, and Otto, hollow-cheeked and provocative, observed him while dragging on the cigarette. The short dress clung to his slim, nylon-clad thighs. Harry had to concede that the guise was a minor masterpiece. Otto in drag was more woman than many he had met. Harry took his eyes away and pointed to the TV screen.